The Assassination of Lincoln and the Revenge of Henry Sturges
by Imgonnaneedabiggermouth
Summary: A continuation of the film from Henry's point of view, and his inability to save his one friend from death. Torture, Hurt, and blood.


When Henry heard the news he was on a mission. He may not be able to kill vampires, but he could kill humans. The confederate General had fled to the North after a devastating defeat. Henry stalked the older man that night. What better person to feed on? He was so used to tearing out a rapist's throat, not that rape wasn't a ghastly crime, but the General had more blood on his hands. Henry had come to terms with what he was long ago. But as the weak human squirmed under his grasp a few laughs choked out.

"Why are you laughing?" Henry squeezed until the laughs became gasps for air.

"Linc-," He coughed and smiled. "Lincoln, Lincoln is gonna' die." Henry pulled back, his fang's sheathing into his gums.

"Lincoln went to the theatre, just this night." He growled. The General chuckled again, his back pressed to the wall of his bedroom.

"I may die tonight, but so will Lincoln, if you don't leave now." Henry was shaken out of his thoughts by the general head butting him. The General knew vampires well, and his arm grasped for the silver candleholder on the table beside him. Henry hissed, his reflexes telling him to run from the horrible metal clutched in the man's hands. It was cheating, Henry knew as he pulled the pistol from his coat, but then again Henry never fought fair. One shot, as quick as lighting into the leg of the general. He didn't deserve to be shot in the head, Henry wanted to watch him bleed out. The silver dropped and Henry kicked it to the other side of the room. He stepped on the wound and the man howled in pain. Bending over slowly, Henry pulled the heavy man up with ease, and threw him onto the bed.

"Who is going to kill him?" Henry clamped his hand on the bleeding leg, squeezing harder.

"I ain't, gonna give you the satisfaction of knowing." The General huffed.

"Tell me, or I will rip this leg from your body, and continue until you're only a stump of a torso." Henry bent down and tasted the fresh blood oozing from the wound. "Tell me and I will kill you quick." Henry bit down this time. The General was near fainting, so he pulled back.

"You don't- you don't know em'." The general moaned, his pulse was weakening, Henry could feel it.

"Give me his name, and I will make you a vampire." Henry proposed cloyingly.

"John Booth! He's just a kid, his dad was an actor. Now please, save me, have mercy." He was sobbing now, and Henry felt no sympathy.

"How many young union soldiers asked for the same from you?" Henry asked, before lowering his fangs to the wound.

The General was dry in a few minutes, and Henry raised his head away from the bloodlust. His corpse was unsightly, definitely not going to be an open casket. He rushed then, out to his horse waiting in front of the estate. The theatre was not far, and he feared he would arrive too late, so long as the General had not been bluffing.

It was quiet, normal, even quaint as he made his way to the theatre door. The play must have begun already. He opened the door with a small creak and he stood in the back, seeking out his friend. He would be in a box, fitting for the president. Henry's pulse was quickening, he felt the adrenaline the General's blood was supplying. If there was a man here to kill Lincoln, may God have mercy on his soul. His eyes darted until they found the person he was looking for. Lincoln sat next to his wife, a bemused smile on his face as he watched the action below. A figure rose behind the president and Henry shouted, he shouted as loud as he could. But the shout was lost on the crack of the gun pressed to his best friends neck. Abe's eyes somehow found his, as he fell forward, it was a moment that would be imprinted in Henry's mind forever. The murdered jumped off the stage, his leg cracking. The General had lied, Booth was no vampire. Henry could kill him, and oh would he kill him. He would eradicate this man, he would delete his entire existence. The man yelled in Latin, and limped off the stage as the theatre exploded in chaos. Henry did not second guess his choice, he ran after Booth. The crowd pushed him back, humans screaming to get out, pushing him away. He was forced out the front, though Booth had gone out the back. He listened, among the yelling, and the screams, he listened for an uneven gait. The blood urged him on, and he ran towards the sound. Behind the theatre, the man was rushing as fast his one good leg could take him. A horse waited there for him, and he mounted it. Henry chased.

He followed, silently in the night, jumping from tree's as he could, and simply sprinting. Booth rode throughout the day, and Henry tracked him. His scent had become familiar, it smelled of fear. He ran all the way to Virginia, and he was already hungry. Booth never stopped, until he came to a small inn. If he was lucky no one would recognize him, and he was. Henry came in a good hour after him, so as to not draw suspicion. Booth was in his room, pacing. Henry noted that the man regretted what he had done. He heard loud mutterings the next room over. Sometimes he would sob and Henry would bite back a hiss. This coward had killed the bravest man Henry had ever known.

Henry did not leave his room until the man had fallen asleep, exhausted. He took out a pick and gently teased the door open. There he lay, a top the bed, his chest falling peacefully. He had taught Abraham that revenge was not the answer, that in the end one man was insignificant. But Abraham was a good man, and Henry was not. He could afford to ignore vengeance, and Henry could not. Lost in his thoughts, Henry did not see the man pull the pistol from his pocket, the very pistol he had used to kill Abraham. The shot went through his heart and Henry fell to the ground. It was not silver, this man did not know of vampires. Henry bid his time, and waited. He stopped breathing and feigned death. Henry slowly concocted a plan inside his head. Some nights he hated himself for what he was, and some, like this very night, he rejoiced.


End file.
